Authors: Joey W. Hill
As the poignant, powerful notes of the song continued, she felt them unfold within her like the chapters of her life, mapping her in and out, everything she was there for him to see. It made her tremble in a way she couldn’t stop. Halting his sensual nibbling, he dropped to one knee to rub his cheek against her midriff, slide his hands around to her thighs and the base of her buttocks to give her a reassuring squeeze. Her body moved restlessly as the side of his head, his soft hair, brushed the undersides of her breasts with his movements.
“It’s okay, angel. I know what this song can do to the soul. It pulls out the magic, makes it easier to give everything to each other. I don’t want you to be afraid.”
She stiffened, her hands curling into fists. “You haven’t played this song… You’re not doing something you’ve done with someone else.”
“Marguerite.”
Tyler rose, cupping her face in his hands. “No. There’s just us in this room. Now and forever.” He paused, seeking the right words. He’d never wanted to possess a woman more, to experience the sweet, aching victory of her surrender to him, the willing gift of her faith and trust. And he knew that meant he had to give her the same.
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“This… No woman has ever been in this room with me other than my wife. I’ve lain here in the dark listening to that song, alone after her death. That’s how I know.”
She raised her hands, closing them over his. His throat closed up at the softer set of her mouth, her sign of forgiveness.
“I’m taking off my clothes,” he said. Reluctantly he took his hands away and
unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, unfastened his trousers. He stilled as her fingers found his shoulder and touched it like the brush of an angel’s wings in truth, following the line to his neck, then down over the wide plane of his chest. His body rippled with response as she made her way over his pectorals, his nipples, the gathering of soft hair across them. Moving to stand closer to him, she lowered her touch to his trousers. Moved around and under his hands as he withdrew them, letting her take down the zipper of the garment. Her fingers went inside, stroking the surface of the cotton boxers as if she were stroking an animal’s soft pelt.
“I thought it wasn’t fair for you not to let me see you. But this is even better.”
Though she was the one blindfolded, surrendering to him, he found himself held motionless by her irresistible whisper, her intimate touch. He wondered now why she even bothered with restraints at The Zone; if he’d been Brendan, he would have simply lain there and let her burn him alive for the chance of a touch like this.
“I’m going to worship every inch of you,” he promised, wondering if she
understood that he meant forever, not just tonight. Catching her wrists before her hands could circle him and undo him completely, he set her from him to remove the rest of his clothes. When he moved back to her, the tip of his erection slid against her thigh, the point of her hip. Her tongue touched her lips, nervous anticipation.
Passion rose in him, even harder and more demanding than it had been in the
garden when he’d known all the demons in hell and the heavenly hosts could not have prevented him from penetrating her. Nothing but her refusal and she hadn’t refused.
Had accepted him. Perhaps could even accept his darkness.
He couldn’t face that. Tonight was not about that. This was all about her. Taking his belt from the dresser, he looped it around her wrists, behind her back. He knotted the strap through the railings of the footboard so she stood before him blindfolded, her arms restrained.
“Tyler…” It was a soft breath. Dropping to one knee again, he made her spread her legs so he could enjoy the nectar of what lay there.
She moaned, already wet and swollen. His hands came up and anchored her hips
more forcefully, his teeth scraping, tongue delving deep, wanting more, wanting her to scream until he’d hear the hoarseness in her voice tomorrow. See in the stiffness of her walk that he’d given her pleasure past the ability of her body to absorb it. He dug his fingers in, wanting to see the bruises that passionate lovemaking could create, the stamp of his presence on her, for they both knew that pain held power and release beyond imagining. His desire for her raged into the dark area of violence as well as the light of ultimate salvation. He wanted her to feel both.
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Mirror of My Soul
Marguerite felt every touch in a way she knew no other man could emulate. The
few touches she’d allowed subs couldn’t compare to this and she didn’t have to have a legion of past lovers to know it. In her soul she knew this was it, the person who called to her heart, the type of person she’d heard other women talk about, dream about, rarely find. And he had reached out to her, seen it and felt it first. Been persistent enough for both of them.
Having him take her over this way brought a sense of tranquility she couldn’t begin to understand, a desire to serve him and worry about nothing else. She wondered if this was what her subs were feeling when she made them reach that elevated state past the point of choice and anxiety. This floating, spiraling…joy.
His mouth left her cunt, whispered down her thigh and across it, up the shallow valley between hipbone and stomach, his fingers touching her navel, touching her waist. Learning her. Registering every tiny mole, plane or curve with mouth and fingers. Every touch was like fanned flame on her skin without her sense of sight. Her thighs remained open to accommodate him so she smelled her scent, felt it wet on her thighs as the petals of flesh still vibrated from the movements of his mouth there.
“Tyler.” That soft word again. A plea. A statement. An affirmation.
He straightened, framed her breasts in his hands and began to suckle her, his lower body pressed against her. She moved, feeling the pressure of the footboard against her bound hands, pressed against her buttocks. His tongue played with the nipple of her left breast, drew it in, tugged. He bit down on it more sharply, making her jump, arch into the pain. She wanted him to bite her everywhere, leave his marks on her, even where the belt dug into her straining wrists. She had a sudden, greedy need for him to overpower her. Take her, obliterating everything else. She wanted him to push her past the point where shadows could reach her, to where there was only mindless pleasure, release, fulfillment. Where love was the only thing she felt.
If that was what this was. At this moment, she knew it was. She might doubt it tomorrow when the shadows returned, but if she could believe it tonight, then maybe with the doubt would also be hope. She hungered to feel that, to feel the butterflies when she wasn’t with him, when she was thinking about him, the way Chloe and Gen did when they had lovers. Secret smiles, weak knees, chuckling at their own
besottedness.
No doubt on that at least. She was most definitely besotted with Tyler Winterman.
And, oh God. That mouth still suckled her nipples, pulling fire into her lower belly, a fire that was spreading even lower so she was writhing sinuously. Rubbing her mound against his hard abdomen, feeling his erection against her inner thigh. She wanted it higher. Wanted it deep inside again.
Abruptly, he released her from the footboard but left her hands bound until he pushed her down on her stomach on the bed. He unstrapped the wrists only to stretch her arms out across the mattress until her hands were clutching the corner seam. He retied and anchored her to the side rail. On the large bed, her feet just went over the 77
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edge. When he put a knee on the mattress between her spread legs, there was a quiet, still moment where he simply stood over her, and she felt him looking at her. Her body vibrated, hips moving in alluring, wanton invitation. Then he destroyed her.
Bending over her, he placed his lips on the cigarette scar at the lowest part of her back, his jaw touching her buttocks. He traced the scar with his tongue, kissed and nibbled it, then moved up to the next one, on the opposite side of the valley formed by her spinal cord.
“There’s only me, angel,” he muttered. “Now and forever. Say it. Mine.”
“Mine.”
He paused, his lips on her back, and she strained against her bonds, moving against him. “Mine,” she repeated.
He bit down not so gently, making her moan. “Yes, angel. I’m all yours. Yours.”
He understood. She was grateful because she was beyond the irritating complexity of words. She knew she was already his, had known it deep inside the moment he first came into Tea Leaves and she felt undone by the flash of those amber eyes. But to believe he was something
she
could keep, not a fleeting fantasy or a dream…
“All yours,” he breathed as he went up her back, his fingers following, tracing her buttocks, his knee moving forward, pressing against her pussy. She arched up, rubbing against him, making tiny mewls of pleasure and need.
“Please, Tyler… I need you inside me.”
He put his arm under her waist, bringing her up higher, her hips into the air, increasing the strain on the restraints on her arms. When his cock slid in deep, his testicles soft against her inner thighs, a secret, intimate caress of contact, he did not even pause in his thorough attention to her scars. Her breath left her on a moan as he worked his way up her spine. The power of the sensation created by his slow swirling of tongue and the brief presence of teeth was matched by each stroke and withdrawal that dragged fire along her slick channel. Her belly clenched for a climax held just out of reach.
“Oh…” She said it softly, trembling on each stroke, each kiss as if her body were frozen, held in the near state of rapture, her skin cognizant of everywhere it was being touched by his. The muscles of his stomach along her buttocks. His hand braced on the bed so close his thumb brushed her side, the outer curve of her breast, increasing the friction of the spread against her nipples, her desire to have him touch her there. His arm around her waist, holding her secure.
Then he withdrew from her despite her cry of protest and turned her over, twisting the belt. She felt him lie down upon her, his chest pressing down on her aching breasts, his cock finding her again and sliding back in, his body pinning her, holding her so their movements became a dance, her undulation against the relentless, steady and slow rhythm of his penetration. He put his hands up on either side of her face, elbows on the bed, forearms pressed against the underside of her arms where she had them stretched above her head.
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“My angel,” he said in a soft, almost reverent voice. She could imagine his tiger’s eyes glowing in the dim light just above her.
She knew he’d chosen this position to seal the intimacy between them. There would be no excuse or rationalizations as escape hatches later. She wished the scarf was gone so that she could meet his gaze, give him that.
“Say it,” he said. She felt his body gathering, the power ready to be unleashed with his release. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Yours.” The words tumbled from her lips. “I’m yours.”
“Sweet angel. Sweet Mistress.” He nuzzled her ear. Her body was on fire, aching as he drew her higher and higher, both sweating, trembling, him holding back, keeping the pace to deny her release until she made it to a height she’d never known she could reach.
“Beg me, angel. I want to hear you.”
She sank her teeth into his shoulder, a growl his answer. Catching her hair in his hand, he wrapped his fingers in it, tightening his hold on her. His strokes became more powerful, demanding. “Making love, fucking you, holding you, it makes no difference.
You’re mine, angel. I want you in all ways, forever.”
She bucked beneath him, violent need taking over, a raging want that she needed him to sate. “Please.” She almost screamed it against his skin. “Please let me come for you.” The darkness contained him, only him.
“Soon…” He changed his angle again. Gripping him with her inner muscles, she
tried to stroke him past the point of control. She strained to lock her legs around him, take him deeper, but he was stronger and kept the pace he wanted.
“Please…Master. Please…” She arched up and he captured one of her nipples,
biting down hard on it, even as he surged forward, pounding now, holding her tight.
“Go over, Marguerite. Scream.”
The music of it broke from her lips before he finished the thought. She arched beneath him, her cunt sucking on him wildly, her body convulsing from the strength of the orgasm. His own roared through him and he used it, thrusting into her again and again, letting the hot streams bring her own climax to new heights, watching her face as much as he could, every nuance of expression, those beautiful lips that had called him Master, the only woman he wanted to do so again.
Her body was damp and strong beneath him yet he felt her fragility, a woman
afraid to call herself his. Even more afraid to claim him as her own, because she’d never had anything she’d loved endure, anything she could keep.
In that brief moment of understanding, he grasped why she’d needed to see his
vulnerability, a woman’s odd way of knowing a man truly needed her.
If she only knew.
He couldn’t imagine breathing without her.
He let her hear him as well, giving his release hard and deep in her, wanting to leave no question in her mind, no part of her untouched by himself.
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He loved Marguerite Perruquet. All he needed to do was convince her she could
love him back and not lose him.
She strained up in the dim light. “Please. Let me see you. Touch you.”
He removed the scarf, freed her hands. She touched every feature of his face, light, wondrous touches. “It doesn’t really matter, does it?” she asked. “Mistress or Master…slave.”
“No. If it’s like this, it doesn’t matter.” He bowed his head down next to her cheek, felt her arms wrap around his damp shoulders. Inhaled the silk of her hair, inhaled her into all of himself.
And remembering Komal, he thanked God for miracles.